Like the proverbial baddie at the end of a formulaic teen slasher film, the cat is just refusing to die, despite having had a fair bit thrown at it. That said, things are perhaps not at quite a terminal stage as I had thought.
To backtrack, a bit over a week ago I’d taken the cat to the vet – before she fell properly ill – as I’d noticed some swelling in her throat. The cat had been diagnosed with hyperthyroidism a couple of years ago, so I assumed maybe this was all linked to that. I’ve always felt the vet, an Irishman who bears a noteworthy resemblance to Peter Griffin, is not really a cat person. He just doesn’t seem to get them, and would much rather just briefly observe from a short distance rather than get his hands dirty. I remember him once, quite out of the blue, declaring my cat was blind, because she was showing no response to him clicking his fingers in various locations above her head. He just looked at me quizzically when I suggested perhaps she just had absolutely no interest in his finger clicking and was more interested in looking to see where the door was. Anyway, he waltzed in, and with the most perfunctory squeezes of her throat, declared that the cat’s thyroid is indeed on its last legs, but it’s just a wait and see situation for the time being.
A few days later, and the cat started to, well, just slump, constantly. The swelling around the throat increased, and she stopped eating, sitting with her mouth open and growling quietly whenever touched. The next day I started to catch a tangy whiff from her, and I realised that her throat had become infected. In amongst the swelling was a huge abscess – enough, once I had pulled some fur away and could see, to turn her skin green – which seemed to be growing by the hour, making her look a little bit like a black furry frog. This confused me slightly; I’d read up on hyperthyroidism, and hadn’t seen a single mention of such a symptom, but I shrugged to myself, attributing this discrepancy to the ‘anything can happen’ throes of dying.
The next morning I got up early and headed downstairs, half praying I’d find a corpse waiting for me. But no, I was greeted with a rumbling growl and so we headed to the vet for the first appointment going, me fully expecting to have her dispatched. The door to the waiting room opened, and I looked up to see a different vet, one who sometimes moonlights there, gesturing us in. I didn’t suppose it really mattered too much who the cat’s executioner was, but there was something reassuring about it being the vet who is so gentle and caring that, in a cliché fiction would skirt around, he’s actually the official vet for the Andrex puppy adverts. The vet though didn’t think an abscess could be related to her thyroid either, and diagnosed an infected tooth, the infection from which had spread significantly. Quite treatable, he assured me.
Anyway, the reason I mention all this, aside from giving an update on the last post, is because of the huge gaping hole the cat has been left with in her throat. If you think of an equivalent hole from the tip of your chin to your Adam’s apple, you’ll get the right sort of idea. It’s as big as two two-pound coins, and I think I could easily slip my mobile phone quite snugly inside. Now I have to go and clean it. Puts me in mind of Steve Buscemi in Fargo…
5 weeks ago